With Paperthin Strings
by rinniesbody
Summary: It was all barely relevant. The visions, the pain, the connection—it was a part of the plot, but it wasn't their story. Dean had always been in love with Sam; and that was all there was to it. [Warning: Contains Wincest (Sam/Dean).]
1. Chapter 1

It was 10 PM, when Dean Winchester woke in a fit of panic and sweat. He lurched himself upright in the bed, his heart beating erratically in his chest as he sucked in the musty air, trying to calm himself down. He reached to the night stand and flicked on the lamp, the dull light illuminating the room in a yellow glow. He took a deep, ragged breath and dragged his hands down his face, continuously reminding himself it was only a dream.

_Just a dream, Dean._

And yet it was the same damn nightmare for the fifth night in a row. And worst of all, it was about his brother.

Actually, to be more exact; it was _always_ about Sammy. It started with dad going missing, and Dean driving out to his brother to ask for help. And every time—every _damn _time—there would be Sam and some blonde girl, lying on the bed of their little apartment; hearts torn from their gaping chests.

And before Dean could even take a step towards them, he'd wake up. At first he thought that maybe it was some kind of warning—a vision of sort, but it didn't make sense, because dad wasn't missing, and he wouldn't go to Sam for help in any case. He hadn't talked to his brother in years, and the last time they'd been together wasn't all that much of a happy memory. Besides, Dean didn't feel like he had the heart to take Sam away from the one place he'd been trying so hard to get to his whole life.

…Away from the hunter's life. Away from _Dean._

Dean brushed the thought away before it could get under his skin. He told himself that the nightmares were just a side-effect from all the stress on the job. They would go away when he wasn't so stressed out.

Dean pushed himself up and rubbed his eyes. He reached down beside the bed and picked up his half-empty beer, pressing the rim to his lips and letting the luke-warm fluid run down his dry throat. It was refreshing in a disgusting sort of way. He made a sour face, but shook it off and set the hollow bottle on the night stand, turning back to the lamp switch. He paused, mid-reach, when he saw his brick of a cell sitting there, scratched and all, staring back at him with flashing red notification.

Dean stared for a couple heartbeats before picking up the phone and flipping it open. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and it grew the moment he saw the missed call and voice mail from Bobby. Bobby barely called.

Dean quickly pressed play before he could think too much about it.

_"Hey Dean, it's me. Your idjit father hasn't turned up in a few days now. He said to tell ya if he didn't show his face after Tuesday. It's Thursday now. Call me back, pronto."_

Dean's jaw clenched as he quickly hit the re dial button. When the receiver on the other end clicked, Dean spoke before Bobby could even say 'hello'.

"Bobby, where did he say he was going?"

There was a sigh on the other end. "That's just the thing. He didn't. I have no idea where he went, or what for."

"Well, since he was playing camp at your place, he must be working a case nearby, right? Did you check the news for any weird activity in the area?"

"Yep, and I got jack-squat. I even checked hundreds of miles out. It's been quiet, Dean. I don't know where he could've gone."

Dean stood, and closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well, did you—did you, uh, check with the PD's?"

"Of course. I made a few calls, but none of the sheriff's around 've heard any feds going by your father's aliases. Well, at least not recently."

Dean banged his fist against a wooden pillar in the middle of the room. "Damn it, dad!"

"I'm sorry Dean, I have a weird feeling' about this one. You 'aint gonna like it, but I think your dad don't wanna be found."

"What?"

"Well," Bobby took a long intake of breath, and let it out loudly. "Your pa seems to be covering his tracks real good."

"Wait, what are you trying to say? That dad just took off without telling his own son what the hell he's doing... on purpose?"

"I told ya kid, you weren't gonna like it. But, yeah. That's what I meant."

"God damn. That sonofabitch better not be in trouble." Suddenly, another thought occurred to Dean. "Sammy."

"Pardon?"

Without a second thought, Dean reached for his jacket and pulled the dagger from under his pillow, quickly stuffing it into the strap around his ankle. "Sorry Bobby, I gotta go. Call me back if you get any news on dad."

"Wait, Dean, what—"

Dean snapped the phone shut, cutting Bobby off. He would deal with Bobby's angry questions about his behaviour when he had the time. As of that moment, Dean had more urgent matters on his mind. He swiped the keys off the counter, shoved on his boots, and hauled ass out the door. As if a beckoning, his baby was waiting for him in the lot; Dean pulled open the door to his father's sleek, black impala, and shoved the key into the ignition, revving the engine to life. It purred as he quickly drove away from the cheap and run-down building, muttering that he'd check out later.

Once he was on the road and racing the moon through the rain, he brought his phone out once again. He sifted through his contacts for Sam; scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. Nothing.

Dean threw the cell on the bench and cursed loudly. He whacked the steering wheel in frustration, remembering that he didn't even have his own brother's number.

What a messed up family they were.

Dean didn't arrive at the Stanford campus until three hours later. The numbers on his watch glared at him in gray digits, reading 2:34 AM. Dean didn't know which building Sam was even in, but he knew the number from dad's old post-it note stuck to the roof of the glove compartment. Dad used to check up on Sammy at least once a month, just to make sure he was alright.

Dean never went with him, though.

After a few coasts around the block, Dean found the door. The same numbers from the note were pasted in silver plates on the complex. Dean had to control his body to not stumble out of the car after he parked it across the street.

Dean hadn't seen Sam in years. They hadn't spoken for longer. There was an unsaid, built up tension between the two brothers; an uneasiness writhing beneath Dean's cool surface, and seeping through the cracks of Sam's eyes. Dean didn't want to face it. He wanted to turn around, pull open the car door, and speed back onto the highway. But at that very moment he forced all his doubts to be washed away, getting a grip on his sanity, and only hesitated a millisecond before kicking down the door.

The voice in the back of his head stirred. _Sammy is still your baby brother._

* * *

Sam Winchester woke to the sound of a bang. He opened his eyes, but they didn't focus right away. His ears rang terribly, and there was a moist feeling spreading along his torso and down his forehead. His body felt numb. Confusion clouded over him, and he tried to move a muscle, but nothing seemed to respond. He blinked again, and a sudden rush of fatigue collapsed over him; trying to drag him back into unconsciousness.

But Sam fought the urge when he heard a familiar voice calling out his name.

Sam, disoriented, concentrated all his energy into pushing himself up, but a sudden pain in his side had him falling back into the silk-sheeted bed. He grunted, slowly pulling his head up to look around, the world spinning and blurring from view.

To Sam's left, he could just barely see Jess' face.

"Jess?" He whispered, coughing up something that tasted awfully metallic. He had a sinking feeling it was his own blood. He winced, silently begging for the ringing in his ears to stop.

Sam counted five breaths, and when she didn't respond, he struggled to roll over to face her. The pain stabbed through him again, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it, the blood dripping over his lip and down his chin. "Jess,"

Suddenly, Sam's vision cleared enough to see the pale face of Jess, with grayed eyes, staring back at him. She wore a shocked expression—mouth parted and eyes wide—the fear frozen in place.

He tried to call out her name again, but his voice got caught in his throat, and tears sprang to his eyes. His arm brushed across the bed, until it came in contact with hers. He gripped her cold hand with whatever force he had left.

The pain thumped through Sam's insides, every beat of his heart getting louder and slower. Jess was dead. He couldn't remember what had happened, especially around the pounding in his head, but he had a feeling that he was probably be going to be dead soon, too. Through the pain, he smiled sadly, closing his eyes. For a split second, he felt calm. Sam realized that he didn't care if he were to die right there and then.

He knew that if he passed on with Jess, he'd reach that peace that he always strived for.

But then, just as abrupt, there was another bang; the same sort that woke him in the first place. But he couldn't find the strength to open his eyes, and already his brain was drifting into unconsciousness. He could feel himself slowly slipping away.

"...mmee..."

Someone's was trying to say something, but Sam couldn't properly hear what it was, or... _who _it was. The voice echoed and ebbed, like trying to find a whisper amongst a thunderstorm.

"...ammy..."

He felt a slight pressure on his shoulders, and then he was being shaken. Sam's eyelids struggled open, until he could just barely see Dean's panicked face just inches above his own.

"Dean?" He whispered, barely audible.

Dean smiled, but in a pained and forced sort of way. His expression was a mixture of worry and sadness. Sam could swear he saw regret hovering in his moss green eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Sam. I wish I'd come sooner. I should have warned you. I thought... When I walked in, I thought you were already..." Dean's voice decayed into a near-sob, but he shook his head vehemently. He removed his hands from Sam's shoulders and shifted position, so he could slide an arm under his legs. "Talk later. First, let's get you out of here."

Sam, still vaguely confused as to why his brother was there, squinted up with reluctance. He opened his mouth to complain about not leaving Jess, but was abruptly stopped before he began, groaning in pain as Dean laced his other arm around Sam's back to hoist him off the bed.

"I called the police already. They'll be here for Jess, but right now I need to get you out."

Dean hurriedly carried Sam out the front door, which already lying flat on the ground, well off its hinges.

Sam coughed, blood splattering into his hand. He blinked at it, his vision still blurring, his head insistently pounding. He hazily wondered if he'd been beaten on the skull, because he couldn't think, hear, nor see coherently. The whole situation seemed too surreal. He tried to grasp onto what exactly was going on, but his brain wouldn't let him focus enough to form a valid explanation.

The only thing that came out of his mouth was a croaked; "This is a first."

"What?" Dean said distractedly.

Sam's head rolled helplessly onto Dean's shoulder. He didn't have the strength to keep it up anymore. "You, carrying me like a princess."

Dean laughed quietly, but the exasperation still tickled the back of his words. "Well don't get too used to it. It's like carrying a moose."

Sam grinned weakly. His eyes began to drift shut, in the bad way—the way that felt like he wasn't going to be able to open them again. Dean opened one of the impala's back doors and gingerly placed Sam inside, being careful with his head.

"No no no no, Sammy, don't you leave me now. You stay with me, you hear?"

Dean climbed into the driver's seat and punched the engine. Sam tried to respond, but he couldn't seem find the words. The darkness clouded his thoughts.

"We'll be there soon. Just stay with me. Just you listen to my voice, Sam." There was a silent pause, one that stretched too long. "Sammy?"

* * *

"I'm sorry, Mr. Smith. I'm afraid you can't go in right now. The doctors are doing the best they can."

Dean opened his mouth as if to argue, but closed it just as quick, deciding to save his breath. No matter what he said, they wouldn't let him in to see Sam just yet. They'd only arrived moments ago, and he was already throwing a tantrum. Taking a moment to clear his head, Dean sighed and let the nurse go back into the curtained room, leaving her to deal with his slowly dying brother with a handful of other emergency doctors. He coaxed himself to relax, and instead began pacing in agitation, too restless to sit. The clock ticked by in seconds that felt like minutes. Dean had to keep himself from glancing in the direction where Sam was being treated, because the last time he looked, he caught a glimpse of surgical utensils and bloody masks.

Finally, a half-hour later that felt like a century, a doctor walked out of the room. The blood smeared across his lab coat made Dean's stomach lurch sideways.

"H-how is he?" He managed to get out, pressing a fist to his mouth.

"Your friend will be fine. He had some major blood loss, but we stitched him up good." He looked at the clipboard that was in his left hand. "Multiple stab wounds, cuts on his arms, and a grade-3 concussion. What did you say happened to him again?"

"Uh, hit-and-run."

"Oh, I see..." His brows furrowed with scrutiny, but he didn't press the obvious doubt any further. "well, my condolences. Good thing you brought him here in the nic' of time."

"Ah, yeah. I got to him just before the guy nearly stabbed him to death." Dean smiled crookedly.

The doctor's face relaxed and he nodded sympathetically. "Well he's on an IV right now, but you're welcome to see him."

"Thanks, doc."

Dean walked past him quickly, and it took all of his willpower to not to run into the room. He pulled back the curtain gingerly, but stopped when he saw his little brother lying on the hospital bed. There was a bandage wrapped around his forehead, the blood wiped clean from his face. His cheekbone was bruised, with cuts scattered in various places like his lips and his arms. A thin blanket covered his body, barely obscuring the larger bandages that wrapped over his bare shoulders.

Dean walked beside the bed and pulled up a nearby chair. He sat down and gently placed his hand atop Sam's.

"I'm sorry, Sammy." He began, barely a whisper. Then he paused and glanced around, as if to make sure there was nobody around to catch him in the act of a total chick-flick moment. He cleared his throat. "I, uh, I know I should have come sooner. I don't know what stopped me. Maybe it was the fact that we weren't on such good terms when you left us, and... No." Dean scoffed, shaking his head at no one in particular. "No, no. That wasn't it at all. Truthfully, I hesitated to visit you not because I doubted what I was feeling in my gut, but because I'm a coward. I didn't want to see the look on your face when you opened the door to find me standing there. I... I wouldn't have been able to take it. I didn't want to see you there, happy with..." he swallowed the lump in his throat. "…without me."

He took a deep breath and held it, as if waiting for a response. He let it out slowly, and watched the rise and fall of his brother's chest. For a moment Dean only regarded Sam's face in contended fixation, as though he were a painting he'd seen somewhere long ago. He studied the familiar curve of his defined jaw line, his subtly pointed nose, and his... wide mouth. The mere sight of them; slightly parted and breathing in shallow breaths, brought Dean's mind back to a memory.

A memory Dean had tried so hard to keep locked away, out of reach. But the trap snapped over him before he even had the chance to pull away

* * *

It was 6 years back, when Sam was 16, and Dean was 20. Dad left for a hunting trip that he didn't need Dean for; one that only spanned a week. He'd booked them into a cheap motel somewhere in Oregon, near the water. That left it up to Sam to enroll himself into the nearest high school if he so pleased (which he always did), and Dean to—well, Dean to do whatever the hell he wanted.

And on that Saturday night, Dean hit the bar. He used a fake fed ID that had his face and a falsey name—the one his dad took him to get for his nineteenth birthday—to get inside, being he was still a year away from being legal. He flirted with every girl in a 10-metre radius and played pool until he robbed every bloke off the board. He drank until he couldn't walk straight, and followed up by escorting a couple of blondes into the back room. It was a typical day-off-the-job for Dean, and he drowned himself in the freedom before the Winchesters would have to be back on the road.

Dean stumbled through the motel door at 3am, to find all the lights off but one. The lamp next to the couch lit the room in a yellow overcast, shadowing half of Sam's sleeping face. He looked calm and at peace, without the usual stress or worry creasing his brow. Dean walked over and picked up the text book sitting on his lap, and patted his shoulder forcefully.

"Dude, go to bed." He threw the textbook on the coffee table, knocking over a bottle.

"Mmmh," Sam groaned softly, blinking up at his big brother. "Dean? What time is it?"

"Around…" He glanced at his watch, but the numbers blurred in and out of vision. "uh, 3ish."

"Wow, you've been out forever."

"Not nearly long enough," Dean joked casually. "Man, I can't believe you chose studying over partying."

"Not my thing." Sam squinted and leaned forward. "God, you smell like sweat and alcohol."

Dean suddenly noticed the empty brown bottles scattered around the table. Were those there before? He stared at them a moment, then turned to scrutinize his brother, who was pretending to be distracted with organizing a pile of notes. Dean quickly leaned forward, brushing his nose against Sam's neck—who yelped in surprise.

"Oh, yeah. I should say the same."

Sam recoiled, his face flushing red. "Don't do that. It's weird."

"Do what?" Dean smiled widely, amused by his reaction.

"Nothing." He shook his head and looked away.

"So, you're an alcoholic now?"

Sam paused, perched on the edge of the couch, before pushing himself up. "Please, it was just a couple of beers."

"Just a _couple?"_ Dean wagged his eyebrows at the mess.

"Hey, you were the one who said I should be partying."

"Yeah, but you get what I meant."

Sam crossed his arms over his chest. "No, please elaborate."

Dean raised his hands. "I meant just being out, man. Okay? Hanging out with other kids, seeing movies and all that. Not drinking alone in a cheap motel while you do your homework."

Sam's face tinged red again. "So, like a normal teenager?"

"Uhm, yeah. Exactly."

"Well I'm not really normal, Dean. _We_ aren't."

"But still. Drinkin' beer? You're still only sixteen, man!"

Sam made a _'hmph'_ of noise. "I can hold my own. And plus, you have no right to say that to me. You got regularly hammered when you were 15."

"But it's—" Dean stopped, seeing a glint of pink on the floor behind the armchair. He reached down to pick it up, revealing a satin pair of purple panties.

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and looked away.

"Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean?"

"Do you mind explaining this?"

Sam scratched his head. "There is nothing to explain."

"Shit, man! You gotta be kidding me." Dean yelled, throwing the panties on the table.

"I don't understand why you're so pissed. You really expect me to be as innocent as I let on?"

"You don't want to follow in my footsteps."

"Whatever," Sam retorted angrily. "I just wanted to have a little fun, is all. You're not the boss of me."

"No, but you are my responsibility. Go to one of your math clubs or something!"

Anger burned in Sam's eyes, but he squeezed them shut and clenched his jaw. "You know what? I'm not having this argument with you. I'm taking a shower." He went to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him before Dean could come up with an answer.

Dean flopped onto the couch and buried his face into his hands. He took a series of deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. The alcohol in his system was still fueling his nerves, jumbling his thoughts—which he didn't exactly understand himself. Why had he gotten so angry with Sam, anyway? He should have been proud of his little bro for finally man-ing up. But all it left in his mouth was a sour taste, and an upset feeling in his stomach.

After a minute of calming himself down, Dean stood and went to the bathroom door. He knocked on it twice. "Sam, I'm sorry for yelling at you. It wasn't fair of me, considering where… where I've been."

The water shut off, and it was silent for a few heartbeats.

"So we're good, right?" He continued. "I won't bother you about it if it happens again. Just let me know next time if you're going out of bringing someone over so I can get out of your way." Dean honestly didn't like saying it, but somehow through his buzzing brain he knew it was the right thing to do.

He could hear a rustle of noise and the soft padding of footsteps on the other side of the door.

Dean leaned his head against the door. "Now would you get out? I need to take a shower too."

Suddenly the doorknob turned, and there stood a dripping Sam, with wet hair that fell into his eyes, and a red towel wrapped around his lean waist. Dean took notice to how tall Sam was getting; they were nearly the same height. But that wasn't all he recognized. Sam's chest was beginning to become more defined, the V of his waist sinking into his tanned skin. His arms were still relatively small in width, but Dean could see the muscle beneath, muscles that'd been building over the years of hunting and training.

"Just forget about it." Sam said, snapping Dean out of the trance.

Dean swallowed. For some reason, he was getting this feeling that made his insides shudder. It felt like a mixture of need and... longing? _Crap. _He recognized it almost right away. He'd felt it some times before, but he always ignored it or shoved it to the back of his head. But right now, with the alcohol pumping through his veins, he didn't know what to think.

"Dean?" Sam said tentatively, verging on annoyed. "You're kind of in the way."

Instead of taking a step back, Dean took a step closer. Without processing his actions, he leaned his face near Sam's ear and breathed in the aftermath of shampoo and soap. God, he loved that bittersweet scent that always rolled off his skin.

"Um, what are you doing?" Sam said stiffly. "You drunkard, take a shower."

"Mmm," Dean hummed. He leaned his head further until his nose touched Sam's bare shoulder.

Sam put his hand on Dean's chest and began pushing him away, but not as forcefully as he'd expected. Not enough to make him actually budge, even though Dean knew he could if he wanted to.

Dean took that as a good sign. It was the closest he'd get to an unsure _'ok'_. Dean moved his face up Sam's neck, until he was only millimetres away from his face. He could feel Sam's hot breath on his lips, still smelling of cheap beer and breath mints.

Dean stared down at his parted lips tentatively, a sudden rush of doubt washing over him. _Dean, don't you fucking dare, _his mind reeled, screaming at him that it would be wrong._ This_ was wrong. He was suddenly so sure, and about to take a step back when Sam clutched his shirt and pulled him in.

It was only a slight brush of the lips, but that was all it took for Dean to snap. He pressed down roughly on Sam's mouth, hunger rumbling from deep within and taking control of his body. His hands moved up his smooth back and Sam laced his arms around Dean's shoulders.

"Dean," Sam managed to say between breaths. "I can't..."

Dean knew he should stop. He had to. But he just couldn't. His hands knotted into Sam's damp hair, controlling the movement of his head. "Me neither."

They pulled away from the bathroom doorway and tumbled onto the bed. Dean's hands roamed his abdomen as they kissed, Sam's legs hiking up and wrapping around his waist. A low noise escaped Sam's throat, and Dean realized it must have been a sort of moan, because it sent a strange sensation right to his groin.

"Dean, I need..." Sam mumbled.

"Shh, s'okay," Dean nuzzled his face into Sam's neck and bit down on the soft skin, to which he was rewarded with another erotic moan; but this time it was much louder and filled with more pleasure. His hands slipped further down Sam's chest, as he sucked on his nape, the muscles beneath his fingers tense and flexing. Dean's thumbs caressed the skin just above the rim of Sam's towel.

"Please," Sam cried, his voice coarse and demanding. Dean knew exactly what he wanted, and he was just about to give it to him when the ear-splitting sound of the motel telephone suddenly rang through the room.

Both of them jumped, and Sam froze, but Dean recovered quickly and pushed himself away. Sam sat there, stunned, while Dean went to check the call display. It was dad. He cleared his throat before answering, hoping the guilt wasn't too thick in his voice.

"Dad?"

"Hey Dean. Look, I'm in a bit of kerfuffle here, so would'ja do me a favour and come down first thing in the morning?"

"Yes sir." Dean turned his back to Sam, who still wore the same glazed expression, staring off into nothing. "What's going on?"

"Found a nest. I can't take it down alone since there's gotta be at least a dozen, maybe more. I got Rufus comin' down too, but I might need the extra back-up. Can't leave 'em here either, because they been movin' locations every couple of days."

"Yeah, okay. I'll wire up a car and come as soon as I can. But what about...?"

"Sammy?" John sighed. "Just leave him there. He'll be fine by himself for a few days. Hell, he might even throw a party."

Dean winced at the mention of a _'party'_ "If you say so."

"See you in a few."

"Bye, dad."

Dean stabbed the End button on the phone and rubbed the back of his neck. When he turned around, Sam was already sitting in the bed with pants on, his face a mask.

"Dad called?" He said bleakly.

"Yeah," Dean muttered, reaching for his jacket on the back of the lazy chair. "damn old man can't take care of a little nest by himself. We'll be back in a couple days, so you better be gettin' A's in all your classes."

Sam didn't react. In fact, it didn't even look like he wanted to breathe. He just stared down at his hands and said, "Alright."

Dean gazed at him for a moment, then nodded to himself and headed towards the door. "I'll call. Take care of yourself and stay out of trouble."

"Dean?" Dean stopped and hesitantly looked over his shoulder. His brother's mouth was parted as though he wanted to say something, and his eyes screamed that it was damned important. But all that came out was "Be careful."

"Am I anything but?" Dean smiled crookedly, before closing the door behind him.

* * *

That was a memory Dean hoped to have forgotten, but it crawled back out to haunt him. It was a heat of the moment sort of situation that he didn't know whether to regret or build upon. But all he knew was that since that day, Sam acted differently. Sure, they never said anything about it (Dean pretended he was too drunk to remember), yet Sam still kept and arms-length from his brother. It was an obvious sign that he remembered. It made Dean frustrated, but he never expressed it or let anyone on that he felt pushed away.

Dean scooted closer and pressed his forehead to Sam's arm. "It's okay, Sammy." He whispered, squeezing his brother's hand. "I'll be a better big brother to you."

Dean didn't know when he began drifting off, but by the time Sam gently squeezed back, he was already fast asleep.

* * *

_So, there you have it. The first chapter to whatever the hell it is I'm doing. I don't want to sound like a poo head, but I'd be extremely happy to be granted with reviews, and comments, and all that good stuff. Shoot away! This is my first Fanfiction, and I just wanted to know if I should even continue? Thanks guys! _


	2. Chapter 2

Sam felt heavy, as if he were sinking into the ground. But the ground was too soft, like being tangled in silk sheets for months, trapped in the cocoon of saccharine webs—no, a better description would be that he was floating, rather than sinking—as the sky flooded over his skin, suffocating on the clouds.

Either way, it wasn't a good sign. It meant he was waist deep in the 4-rule waters: He was either drunk, drugged, slowly dying, or already dead.

The faint sound of a periodic beeping roused him into consciousness, and he was sorely pulled out of the transcendent numbness. The noise gradually became more prominent the further he was brought back into sensibility, growing louder with every beat until it pounded in his ears, in his head, and through his ribs. He carefully opened his eyes, just a touch, squinting against the light beneath half-open lids, allowing himself to become used to it before blinking them wide. He found himself staring up at a white ceiling, wondering idly if he really was dead.

Sam let out a shallow sigh, and then glanced down—to nearly choke on his breath. His brother, clad in a brown leather jacket, sat hunched in a chair with his head in his arm. His even breaths leaked through the sheets, warm as a bird against Sam's stomach.

"Um, d-dean?" Sam whispered.

His brother stirred, but didn't wake; his breathing hitched only slightly before carrying on its soft rhythm.

_Why is he here?_ He thought incredulously. _And where the hell am I?_

He glanced to his left, to where the incessant sound was coming from, and the sight of a black monitor blurred in and out of view. The red line blinked across the screen, ascending with every beep and continuing into nothing.

_A heart monitor. _Sam told himself. _But why..._

He sucked in his breath. "I'm... I'm in a hospital."

Tubes with needles were stuck in his arms, bandages were wrapped around his head, and his lips tasted swollen and cut. His shoulder hurt insanely when he only shifted slightly, and his head throbbed when he tried to concentrate too hard. When he swallowed, a hot feeling radiated down his throat—

And suddenly, the events of the past night engulfed him like a fire.

Fire. It was fire, that held a form.

He remembered the smell, the taste; copper and honey, blood melting like chocolate in his mouth and through his veins. The blasts that kept his ears ringing and head pounding, the ones that threw him up against the wall—strangling, pressing, pushing—before letting him fall to the floor with an audible crack of bones. The stab of a knife on every bruise had him sinking to his knees, not letting him enough air to beg or plead, just enough to have him scream, and then there were faces and no faces;

Jess, Dean.

_Jess is dead, and Dean is… is here._

Sam squeezed his eyes shut to barricade the images, but they only swirled past faster. Jess watching him, wide-eyed, forest-green eyes burnt down to a charred gray. He felt the sudden urge to vomit.

He'd failed her.

A single tear managed to slip down his cheek, but he quickly raised a hand to wipe it away. He opened his eyes and blinked furiously, refusing to let himself cry. "I was supposed to protect you," He said quietly.

The movement must have jostled the bed more than necessary, because Dean groaned faintly and raised his head. He yawned and blinked away the drowsiness, briefly running a hand through his short hair before noticing Sam was also awake.

Their eyes met, and Sam couldn't breathe. He hadn't seen his brother in years, and the familiar throb pressed against his chest, despite the confusion, sadness, and bitterness that churned in the pit of his stomach. Dean seemed... different, changed. He had an air of maturity that enhanced his posture, combing his statuesque features. He'd always been handsome, but now he was practically a portrait; from the tip of his perfectly curved nose to the lines that defined his full lips, or from the strong structure of his jawline to the starkness of his long lashes that framed emerald eyes. And his eyes, they were the most beautifully horrible part of him that had changed; they were overcast, with a new wall that had been built from all of the maturity and hardness, to hide the young and anomalous boy who had once upon a time, always been at his side. And yet, despite this wall, Sam could still see the sorrow that began to leak from its edges.

Sam tore his eyes away; importunely hoping monitor wouldn't give away the erratic beating of his heart.

"Hey," Dean murmured.

Sam opened his mouth, only to close it. He was afraid to talk, because his throat suddenly felt clogged, like someone stuffed a gag through his teeth. Just the sound of Dean's voice made his heart stumble, sending a guilty shock down his spine when Jess's face appeared in his mind. He only sank his head back into the pillow to stare blankly at the ceiling, willing the stinging in his eyes to subside.

"Sammy, I'm sorry."

"For what?" Sam whispered quickly, so much so that it nearly overlapped his brother's words. He didn't mean to sound snappy; it just came out before he could stop it. And technically, it was a legitimate question, because there were many things to be sorry _for._ Jess' death, for one—or, taking him away from her when she was dying.

Even better: for always taking dad's side. _Always._

_For letting you leave, and not bothering to even _call_?_ Sam's brain hissed.

A pang in his gut made him cringe, and he pressed his cheek against the pillow, closing his eyes. The tears fell freely at that moment, and he just let it happen. He couldn't fight it anymore. He couldn't fight all the pain.

"Sam, I—"

"Just leave." His body began to rack with sobs, sending tremors of pain throughout his body, but he stubbornly ignored it. "Just l-leave me alone, please..."

Dean pushed away from the bed, scraping the chair across the tiled floor as he went. Sam grimaced and squeezed his eyes tighter, waiting for the sound of his footsteps as he left the room. But after a few passing moments with no such indication, Sam finally opened his eyes—only to be rewarded with the sight of Dean looming over him, brows creased with something he couldn't comprehend.

"No," He said softly. "Not again."

Sam held his breath as his brother leaned closer, lifting a hand towards his hair. He automatically shrunk away—but Dean didn't falter in the slightest. He cupped Sam's face and wiped away the tears with his thumbs.

Dean stared into his brother's eyes intently. "I'm here now, and I'll never let you slip through my fingers again, not as long as I live and breathe."

At that, Sam broke down and began to cry even harder. He struggled to inhale properly as he let out gasped breaths, though through all the pain and the tears, he couldn't help but smile. It was only a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, yet it was still there nonetheless. He should have (and had the right to) be angry about all the things Dean put him through, all the confusion and affliction that stabbed at him through all the years. Plus, he had so many questions to ask, so many unanswered notions—but in that instant, he just wanted to stay the way they were, just for a moment longer, before it would end too soon.

"I'll protect you for sure this time," Dean said sternly, as if their father had just whispered into his ear.

Sam's grin grew stronger, and he wanted to say something, but a wave of fatigue washed over him before he could remember exactly what it was. He closed his eyes and clutched the wrist that still held his cheek, as if to make sure his brother was still there. His grasp weakened quickly and he had to let go, the exhaustion dragging him deeper into the sea.

A moment before he completely slipped under, he felt the pressure of Dean's lips against his forehead. "Definitely."

_Sorry for such a short chapter, I just realized that I needed to post _something _just to keep the ball rolling. I got busy and distracted and stuff. ): Anyway, I promise the next chapter will be much longer, and full of more... exciting things, ehehe. Plus, I decided my official update-day will be every Monday. So expect the next chapter Monday, yes? Thanks guys! _

_~Rin_


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